


Revelations

by neverwere



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Time Skip, Some Humor, some feelings if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:02:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverwere/pseuds/neverwere
Summary: I firmly believe that Ushijima Wakatoshi deserves to get the dicking of a lifetime from the wonderful, marvellous, one and only, Komori Motoya.So I proudly present you the first ever ushikomo fic.I’m cracking open this relationship tag here and now.Happy New Year of the Ox!---“A man might get the wrong idea, captain.”Ushijima slightly parting his lips to exhale is all the encouragement he needs to push his fingers inside. No resistance. Motoya’s mouth goes dry.“Or the right one.”
Relationships: Komori Motoya/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 16
Kudos: 54





	Revelations

Motoya is on a roll. It may be his best performance with the national team to date, and possibly of his entire professional volleyball career. It’s not even an official match, just a scrimmage during practice. 

He thinks it’s in no small part thanks to the spikes Ushijima Wakatoshi has been aiming in his direction with obscene, relentless force for the best part of an hour.

It’s obvious by now that Ushijima has been targeting him, and that Motoya has been trying his damned best to dig those tricky bitchass spinning motherfuckers of spikes, and more often than not he’s been succeeding. It’s a game within a game, their own two-way challenge blazing across the net. He thinks if he weren’t so completely focused on the ball he’d be hard in his shorts. 

While chugging water from his bottle during a timeout, Motoya speculates that everyone who’s ever played against Ushijima has at least once thought about having sex with him. Even if it’s just the frustrated, belligerent kind of revenge-sex that stems from Ushijima spiking the ball in their faces too hard too many times. 

From the bench, Suna gives him the side eyes like he knows. Motoya shrugs as if he has nothing to hide. The odds of deceiving him are low. Suna Rintarō is an outright menace and Motoya’s best bitch since 2018. He loves him so damned much.

When he shakes hands with Ushijima at the end of the match Komori licks the sweat off his lips. Ushijima's grip on his hand tightens a fraction and he lingers for a moment longer than necessary. Uh oh. 

Motoya stares into Ushijima’s eyes as a shiver trickles down his back. 

_Uh oh indeed_.

***

To hell with subtlety. 

Motoya thinks he may have a shot, but it’s a difficult one, one he has to chase otherwise it’s not going to come to him on its (his) own. Ergo, he’s been very obviously ogling Ushijima since they arrived at the bar for post-practice drinks. It’s somebody’s birthday, or something. 

The utterly mindblowing thing is that it may be working, because he’s catching Ushijima’s eyes more and more as the evening goes by. 

People often assume Motoya is a cutesy, passive partner. Dumb fools. Motoya likes them big, likes them strong, and most of all likes them on their knees. And right now, there’s nobody he’d like more than his very own team captain. 

The next time he finds Ushijima staring, Motoya nods in the direction of the side door that opens onto the alley, and he walks out.

It’s showtime.

He lays his back against the brick wall and waits. After a couple of minutes, the door opens.

They look at each other for a long moment. Ushijima has never been an affable conversationalist. Motoya gives him time, savouring the tension that wraps around them.

Once again, Ushijima calls the bet. “You’ve been looking at me,” he says.

“You’ve been looking back.”

Ushijima doesn’t reply to that, just stares at him with the hint of a scowl.

And now, now it’s time to put all of Motoya's chips on red and spin the wheel.

Motoya walks towards Ushijima. Slowly, with intention. He says it again, “You’ve been staring at me all night.” He’s so close now that he has to tilt his head up by an uncomfortable angle to keep eye contact. But he can fix that. He puts a hand on Ushijima’s cheek, dragging his fingers along the jaw until they’re swiping across his bottom lip. 

“A man might get the wrong idea, captain.” Ushijima slightly parting his lips on an exhale is all the encouragement he needs to push his fingers in. No resistance. Motoya’s mouth goes dry. “Or the right one.”

He pulls Ushijima’s face down to his eye level by hooking his index and middle finger behind his teeth. Ushijima makes a suppressed noise from the back of his throat that sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

“Let me tell you what’s going to happen if you decide to follow me, Wakatoshi-kun.” Motoya rubs his fingertips on Ushijima’s tongue. “First, I’ll take you to my room and have you suck me off. And then,” he pushes his fingers deeper in Ushijima’s mouth, “Once you’re crying I promise I’m going to fuck you like you’ve been dreaming about since you met Oikawa Tooru when you were sixteen.”

Somehow the whole Japan national team is aware of the infamous _You should have come to Shiratorizawa_ affair, and like the rightful shiteheads they are, they use it to tease the stoic, solid, unwieldy Southpaw to no end. Suna — bless him — has made memes about it. _Memes._ Motoya almost lost it in front of coach Hibarida that time that Bokuto whisper-yelled “You choose the wrong path” during a post-practice debriefing.

Anyways, the historical homoerotic tension between Ushijima and the current starting setter for Argentina is no secret, and Motoya is not kind enough to let it go unpunished.

And it seems that maybe there was some truth behind it, because Ushijima suddenly moans around Motoya’s fingers and _sucks_. 

_Oh_. 

Motoya likes where this is going. Likes it very much. 

He has not had a decent fuck since he began training with the national team. It’s been physically brutal, and on top of that it would be stupid to risk the on-court dynamics just to get his dick wet. 

Motoya knows that very well, but he cannot, in good conscience, ignore a willing Ushijima Wakatoshi. Dammit, if he can he’s gonna treat Japan’s cannon to the dicking of a lifetime. There may even be a clause in his contract that reads:

> _12.3 If the captain of the national team wants your dick, you shut up and give it to him._

He keeps on sliding his fingers on Ushijima’s tongue while fixing his gaze on his eyes. He pushes his ring finger in as well, and takes a firm hold on Ushijima’s jaw, forcing his mouth open wide. Ushijima draws a strangled breath.

Motoya speaks softly, almost tender. “Wakatoshi-kun, go to your room and prep yourself for me. I want you already wet and open.” He sees Ushijima’s eyes roll back in his head for an instant. It’s almost too easy. 

He steps closer to untuck Ushijima’s shirt and run his left hand under the hem. He drags his fingernails along the warm skin, and then moves further down, pressing the heel of his hand on the thick of Ushijima's thigh. 

Slowly, he slides the fingers of his right hand out of Ushijima’s mouth, leaving them flat against his chin, the fingertips pressing lightly against his bottom lip. Motoya gets so close he whispers the next words against the back of his own fingers, "If and when you’re ready, I’m in room 608.”

He slips his room key card in Ushijima’s pocket at the same time Ushijima leans forward to kiss him. _Too damn easy_. The kiss is nothing gentle, it’s full of tongue and teeth and hunger, and, if Ushijima’s mouth is as skilled as it would appear, Motoya’s in for a real treat. 

He lets his hand wander around Ushijima’s thigh, skirting around what’s now a very obvious erection squeezed in his dress trousers. Another treat he’s looking forward to. He puts more pressure, stroking slow and steady, until Ushijima moans in his mouth. There. 

Motoya releases him and steps back. 

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he says before walking away.

***

Motoya knows that leaving is a gamble. That’s the beauty of it really. 

He wants them to want it. To want it bad. To want _him_ bad. He wants them to stop and think about it, and decide that yes, they’d very much like to come and sit on his dick for a short (or medium) while.

It has backfired on occasion, some do not come to room 608 after all. But it’s better this way. He’s looking for motivation, grit, iron willpower to get that dick. He’s found that they are the most fun.

He also loves the addictive thrill of the anticipation, curbing the urge to jerk off on his own. He doesn’t, but what he does is take off his underwear and redress in his skinny jeans. Motoya likes a good scene, and underwear is clumsy, unnecessary. It’s a little show for an audience of two, or, on a couple of memorable occasions, three. 

And so he dims the lights to a warm glow, sits on the sofa in his private lounge and waits for the roulette wheel to stop spinning.

***

After approximately seventeen and a half minutes of delicious torture, there’s a knock at the door of room 608. It feels like Christmas morning, and Motoya can’t wait to unwrap his sweet, king-sized present.

Despite having the key, Ushijima doesn’t open the door. So considerate. Motoya tells him to come in loud enough to be heard from the corridor outside. After a moment, Ushijima walks in and the door closes behind him with a click.

“Turn on the do not disturb sign,” Motoya says, low and dark. 

Ushijima presses the little button on the panel of controls next to the door and Motoya takes a good look at him from his position on the couch. 

He’s almost certain Ushijima changed his clothes, and is now wearing a clean, white button up shirt, perfectly pressed. Endearing. He probably debated whether to put on a tie or not. Ushijima seems like the kind of guy who gets comfort from uniforms. Order personified. Motoya almost regrets he didn’t, ties are fun to pull. Maybe next time he’ll ask him. 

Ushijima takes off his shoes and turns towards him, hovering in the hallway, waiting. 

Motoya offers him an opening. “So you came,” he says.

“I came.”

He has a lovely, lovely voice. Low and vibrating. Motoya is gonna have so much fun. He has so many plans.

“Good,” he hums. “Wakatoshi, I’m going to make this easy for you. I’ll tell you what to do and you’ll do it. You can say no and walk away any time, but you don’t have to talk.”

Motoya is _almost_ tempted to force him to talk dirty to see what comes out of Ushijima's mouth. He expects it to be somewhere between hilarious and perplexing. Suna would probably have a field day with that kind of material. One day. Maybe minus the Suna part. Maybe. For tonight Motoya’s gonna run the show exactly like he wants to. 

“Come here Wakatoshi. I promised you I’d fuck you right and I will.”

He thinks Ushijima stops breathing for a moment, but then he nods and steps forward towards the couch. 

Motoya stands and waits until Ushijima is within reach before grabbing him by the neck and pulling him down for a kiss that’s all tongue. Ushijima comes willingly.

“Strip,” he whispers, and then sits back on the sofa to enjoy the view. And what a view it is. Ushijima’s proportions are otherworldly. He is, by all standards, a god-tier attractive man, and Motoya is salivating more and more with every button that is unfastened to reveal a perfectly sculpted chest, extremely lickable abs and an outright sinful V-line disappearing under the belt of Ushijima’s suit trousers. 

Motoya slowly unbuttons and unzips his jeans. Ushijima hands still as he focuses on Motoya’s movements. He pulls his jeans down enough to take himself in hand and squeezes lightly. He’s probably been hard for the best part of an hour now and it feels _so good_.

Ushijima continues undressing in slow, precise motions. His shirt drops on the floor. If there ever was a dictionary definition of eye fucking, this would be it. Ushijima undoes his watch and carefully places it on the coffee table. It feels like the whole room is drenched in static, ready to spark off into lightning like a majestic experiment by Nikola Tesla.

The swish of the belt sliding through the hoops. Trousers. Socks. Briefs. There seems to be no hesitation in Ushijima Wakatoshi, no shame in getting naked in front of his teammate, no embarrassment in revealing a flushed, hard, uncut, _beautiful_ , _very_ _suckable,_ cock. 

Dammit, the guy is a wonder. The perfect human, the absolute idea of a man made flesh, towering over Motoya with his bulk. Motoya could eat him whole.

“Kneel,” Motoya says while looking up, “I think you know what I want you to do.”

Ushijima knows. Knows very well and without so much as a warning takes it in his mouth and starts to suck Motoya’s dick with the intense focus that he normally reserves for serve practice. 

He keeps eye contact for the whole time, he doesn’t seem to be blinking at all. Motoya for a moment wonders if Ushijima Wakatoshi is in reality an alien, a reptilian mutant from outer space, a perfect Ushijima-1000 model sent from the future to annihilate opponents both on the court and in the bedroom.

Not that Motoya cares — Ushijima’s cyborg mouth and tongue are the absolute best things his dick has ever felt.

Ushijima pulls him forward by the hips to the edge of the sofa, reaching new depths of dick swallowing. Motoya enjoys it for a while, running his fingers through Ushijima’s hair and letting the pleasure run liquid through his body. But there’s something he wants to try. He’s been dreaming about it for years.

He takes hold of Ushijima’s hair with both hands and pulls him up slightly. “Stay still,” he murmurs, all breath.

Using the leverage of his feet on the floor and some good old-fashioned core strength, he starts to thrust inside Ushijima’s mouth achingly slowly, gently.

“I’m going to fuck your face Wakatoshi, hope you enjoy it as much as I do.”

Ushijima lets out the most erotic, loud, sound around his dick in response. He takes that as a yes.

“Tap out if you want me to stop,” is the last warning he gives.

And so Motoya fucks Ushijima’s face like he deserves to be fucked. Properly, with care and a good amount of choking. The _sounds_ Ushijima makes are the angels’ favourite spotify playlist.

It is, overall, excellent. It’s so excellent that Motoya needs a small break if he wants to last until the main event. 

“Next time— _ah_ — next time I’m gonna come all over your pretty face.” Motoya stops moving and holds Ushijima still. They’re both panting. “Would you like that?”

At that, Ushijima lets out a stifled _yes_ and pushes himself deeper on Motoya’s dick with the neck strength of an ox-bull used to the yoke. In a remarkable feat of orgasm control, Motoya manages to keep going and fuck Ushijima’s mouth until tears slip from the corners of his eyes from choking. _Gods_. Motoya has to pull him off and kiss him until he’s out of breath. 

“Come over here and ride me,” he says, gently pulling on the back of his shoulders. 

Ushijima climbs on the sofa to straddle him but says, “I believe I was promised a different kind of experience.”

Motoya almost snorts at the phrasing. Ushijima’s voice is rugged and coarse though, and reverberates under Motoya’s skin and makes him shudder.

“Don’t worry babe, I’ll get you there,” he replies. 

The absurdity of calling Ushijima Wakatoshi _babe_ is not lost on Motoya, but it’s just one more reason to do so. Who among mortals can stake the same claim? Judging from the way Ushijima settles on top of him and starts to grind he doesn’t mind the pet name. _At all_. He’s graceful in the way he moves, in the way the long, thick fingers undo the buttons of Motoya’s checked shirt one by one. 

Ushijima leaves a trail of kisses on his neck and down his chest as he goes. Motoya takes the occasion to run his hands all over Ushijima’s thighs and back. He’s an exceptional human specimen. He dips his fingers down in between his cheeks, rubbing the pads in lazy circles. Two of his fingertips slip in easily. And just like that, his fingers are inside Ushijima Wakatoshi. Repeat. _He is inside Ushijima fucking Wakatoshi._ What a phenomenal concept. It feels like fireworks are going off in Motoya’s brain. 

“You _did_ prep yourself.” He thrusts his fingers inside at an unhurried pace.

“You _ah—_ told me to.”

“You’re so obedient, captain. I wonder what else you would do for me if I asked.”

“Only if you said _please_ , Komori-kun.” 

Did he fucking just—? The little shit. Motoya almost laughs. He is elated to be holding this 192cm, 90kg demi-god in his lap. He wants to know more about this version of Ushijima that appears when the stone-cold exterior is shoved aside.

“Then _please_ , captain, fuck yourself on my cock.” 

Ushijima gasps and bites down on Motoya’s shoulder before reaching over to the coffee table for condom and lube. He strokes and slicks both of them, and wraps Motoya’s dick up with care.

And then, true to the gods, Ushijima Wakatoshi rides him like there’s no tomorrow and the last thing that it’s worth doing before the world ends is to sink down on his dick. Motoya could write poems and ballads about Ushijima’s quads, the way they tense and release as he rocks up and down. Bless pro athletes, strength training and the necessary evil of crossfit. He’s glorious.

Motoya takes his time to thoroughly appreciate the little miracle manifesting in his lap. He wants to remember the light sheen of sweat blooming on his neck, the almost painful grip of Ushijima’s hands on his shoulders, what his face looks like when Motoya suddenly, finally thrusts up with a sharp jerk of his hips and Ushijima’s eyes roll back with a cry. This man is doing things to Motoya’s ego. He’s hands down the most attractive man he’s ever had the pleasure of fucking. And the pleasure is hot, deep, blinding.

When Ushijima starts clenching around him Motoya knows he’s ready. He grabs his hips to still him. 

“I believe it’s time to keep my promise.”

He gently pushes Ushijima off and guides him so that they’re standing behind the couch. He pushes him down until he’s folded over the hard shoulder of the couch, face down. What a fucking sight.

With a sigh, Motoya sinks back in. He fucks him slow and deep first, until Ushijima is pushing back against him. Timing is of the utmost importance, and now’s the time for the grand finale. He grabs Ushijima’s wrists in a mean, tight grip and then, only then, fucks him like he means it. Hard, fast, punishing. Delightful. Fucking exhilarating. Ushijima’s moans are muffled in the cushions.

Motoya too, can’t (and won’t) hold in an almost constant stream of moans and grunts. He’s getting close, but there’s one last thing to do before he can allow himself the ultimate bliss of coming inside Ushijima Wakatoshi. What a sentence. What a feeling.

He slows down just enough to ask, “You’re rubbing yourself all over the couch Wakatoshi… Do you want to come?”

Ushijima whimpers. _Whimpers_. And Motoya is one breath away from losing it completely. He contracts all his muscles to still and stave off his own climax. Just a little bit longer. Just— breathe. He reaches over to grab the bottle of lube from where it was dropped on the couch earlier. The movement pushes his dick impossibly deep inside Ushijima. Fuck. 

He pours a generous amount of lube in his palm. “I didn’t hear an answer. Do you want to come or not?” Hard thrust. 

Ushijima moans loudly. “Yes _yesyesyes…”_

Motoya reaches around to grab his dick, hard, hot, pulsing. Beautiful, so damn beautiful. 

Ushijima moans again as Motoya goes back to fucking him hard and fast. “Make me come Komori, _please pl— ah—_ make me come.”

It doesn’t take long after that, they’re both coiled so tight that it only takes a few strokes of Motoya’s hand for Ushijima to come with a high-pitched cry, and for Motoya to follow suit, not able to resist the wonderful squeeze around his cock. 

He allows himself a moment to rest, panting in between Ushijima’s shoulder blades. Gods, his back should be enlisted among the Cultural Properties of Japan. Protected by UNESCO. A plaque, he decides, he deserves at least a plaque. Maybe for his birthday, or Christmas, or whatever. The temptation to just go to sleep then and there is strong, but he can feel awareness bleeding back into his limbs — the slight burn in his legs, the strain in his back.

He leaves an open mouthed kiss between those beautiful trapeze muscles, licking away some sweat. He slips out of Ushijima and pulls him back upright, wrapping an arm around his front. 

He eyes the debauched sketch painted by the white streaks of cum against the dark background of the leather couch. Tonight, Motoya has decided, is not a night for regrets. And so he says, in a soft voice, “Oh, look at this mess.” 

He drags his fingertips along the shoulder of the couch, directing Ushijima’s attention where he wants it. 

“You should clean it up.”

Ushijima turns slightly to look at him. A flicker of understanding, and then he makes a move towards the bathroom, but Motoya stops him. 

Motoya shakes his head and swipes his finger in the little pools to collect some on his fingertips. 

“I said,” he speaks softly as he pushes his fingers inside Ushijima’s mouth, “Clean it up, Wakatoshi.” 

Ushijima moans, and then proceeds to lick the leather of the sofa clean while his eyes burn inside Motoya’s.

The sight makes Motoya’s head spin, and his next words come out high-pitched and breathless, “Good. Jesus, you’re so good.” Motoya pulls him into a kiss as if he’s trying to reach Ushijima’s soul with his tongue. It’s— wow. He’s almost hard again. Which reminds him to finally take the condom off and tie it up. He wraps it around his finger as he stretches his arms above his head. The movement draws a yawn from his mouth. 

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” Motoya says. 

Before heading towards the bathroom he gives Ushijima a playful pat on the ass. You only live once after all.

Ushijima calls back, a tinge of doubt coloring his voice, “You want me to stay?”

“If you want,” Motoya replies to the vision standing butt-naked in the middle of his lounge.

Ushijima follows him.

***

The following morning, Wakatoshi wakes up at 5:59 feeling refreshed. 

Rejuvenated. 

Detoxified. 

Revitalised. 

He hasn’t felt this good in _years_.

His back is just a little sore and his jaw is just a little tense. It’s perfect.

He rubs his fingers on the faint marks around his wrists as he watches Komori snoring loudly next to him. He sleeps the deep sleep of the just. 

Wakatoshi is truly thankful. Komori proved to be a man of his word. He even gave him one last gift right before falling asleep the previous night, by holding him to his chest with an arm around his waist. It was a revelation. Wakatoshi never knew that being the little spoon could feel so right. 

He gets out of bed taking care not to wake Komori and pulls the blankets up around his shoulders, tucking him in gently. 

Before leaving, he places a thank you note on the coffee table that reads something like this:

> _Dear Komori-san,_
> 
> _Please allow me to express my deepest gratitude for the hospitality you showed me last night. You are an honourable man and I hold you in ~~great~~ even greater respect in light of our recent entanglement. _
> 
> _I would be delighted for this to be a repeated experience if you were amenable to the idea._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Ushijima Wakatoshi, your captain_

He walks away from room 608 with a spring in his step. 

Wakatoshi is at peace with the world.

It’s a beautiful day.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!  
> Let me know what you think with a comment or come and say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ginkobean/status/1345811190824448000).
> 
> A note about how this fic came to be  
> One unassuming Monday evening, I was overtook by the strange need to read about Ushijima Wakatoshi getting railed by Komori. Just because.  
> You can imagine my Disappointment! Surprise! Bewilderment! to discover there was nothing in the tag. NOTHING. And it’s not that I didn’t find the specific flavour of smut I was after, the tag didn’t even exist. Not even lewd k*ssing or h*nd hol**ng.  
> So I HAD to, as you say, make my own food.  
> It was fun.
> 
> If I ever write furry porn it’s going to be about these two.  
> Ushiwaka-babe, it’s all for you.
> 
> \---
> 
> Guess how many times I listened to Africa by Toto while writing this piece?  
> I think that if you could turn Africa into a person it would take the form of Ushijima Wakatoshi.


End file.
